


Deep Roots are not Reached by the Frost... or the Shadow

by raiyana



Series: Prince of Greenwood [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elf Culture & Customs, Gen, SWG Challenge: Pride, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 09:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19665088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: A funeral in Greenwood the Great, some time during the First Age.





	Deep Roots are not Reached by the Frost... or the Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> my prompt was https://www.fridakahlo.org/images/paintings/roots.jpg

The servants of the Dark One – _yrc!_ – should never have been able to get so close to home.

And still it was _her_ fault they were standing here, digging beneath the roots of a young beech tree.

Her fault, for not protecting him better, like an older sister _should_.

The singing rose around her, low and mournful, and she felt her own voice join them, lifting her grief to nestle in the branches quivering with a sudden wind. He was here, she knew, blinded by tears as they lowered the body into the dark hole.

He was here, and he should not be, she felt. He _should_ have been standing beside Adar, who looked even grimmer than usual, as though part of him had died, too.

She knew how he felt, watching her mother kneel at the edge of the grave, a small basket beside her.

Red poppies, for his hair, and rowan berries for protection, a wolf’s fang, carved with the mark of their suddenly smaller family.

More branches, and handfuls of earth rained down, hiding feet, legs, body – _curled up, for warmth or protection against the dark?_ – arms.

Someone screamed when his face disappeared.

She was surprised to realise it had been her voice.

The wind played with her own red locks, caressing her wet cheek for a moment that felt almost playfully familiar, and then it was gone.

The song rose to a crescendo, every voice calling as one:

“May you sleep peacefully beneath root and earth!”

It was half their hope, and half a command.

Too many still recalled the Darker Days in which the Dark One hunted The People for sport, sending their kinsmen back tainted by his malice, bespelled by the darkness within.

The first thrall was not discovered until it began to rot, the smell sickly-sweet and terrible. By then, it had taken several others beyond the protection of the People.

Now they buried their dead far beneath the roots of the trees they had loved best, and prayed that no Shadow would disturb them.

Or that the tree would hold them tight if it did.


End file.
